


The Calm and the Storm

by nlans



Series: Cecily Trevelyan [4]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-17
Updated: 2015-01-27
Packaged: 2018-03-07 23:42:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 17,815
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3187661
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nlans/pseuds/nlans
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Everyone has things they would regret to leave undone, should the end come.</p><p>DA:I scenes from “Before the Dawn” through the endgame (read: tons of late-game spoilers!); also, lots of flashbacks to Kirkwall exploring Cullen's path, and Samson's.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Samson

* * *

 

**Kirkwall, 9:31 Dragon**

Every Templar and mage in the Gallows bore witness Samson’s sentencing. Meredith made sure of that. Even Maddox, now bearing a Tranquil’s brand and eerie calm gaze, was there to watch as the Knight-Commander pronounced Samson stripped of his rank and cast out of the Templar order.

“This isn’t justice!” Samson hissed, although there was no surprise in his voice.

The Knight-Commander gave him a severe look, tinged with something like regret, or maybe just disappointment. “You allowed yourself to be corrupted, to run illegal errands for one of our charges. We cannot allow such dealings in the Order.”

“They were _letters_! Love letters, that’s all!” the ex-Templar cried, looking to his former brothers and sisters for support.

Cullen was the only one who would meet his gaze. He was not unsympathetic—he knew how easy it was to forget one’s duty, to pity a mage and extend them favors. But Samson had not seen what he had. “The rules are in place for a reason,” he said, trying to make his voice even. “The dangers are too great to let down our guard.”

The look Samson gave Cullen was half scornful, half pitying. “I don’t know what happened to you in Ferelden, Rutherford, but you’re a damned fool if you think this serves our cause, serves the Order.” He pointed an angry finger at Maddox. “Forget me. Look at him, and then look me in the eye and tell me he deserves to live like that over a few soft words on a piece of paper!”

Cullen kept his eyes on Samson’s. “You knew what you were doing was wrong, as did he. Isn’t that right, Maddox?”

“I broke the Circle’s rules,” Maddox agreed placidly.

“Be Meredith’s lap dog, then,” Samson snarled. “Maker take all you cowards!”

“You have one hour to collect your personal belongings and leave the Gallows,” Meredith said coldly. “One hour, no more. And do not attempt to take anything that belongs to the Order. That includes lyrium—and you will be searched.”

For the first time, Samson’s expression showed fear.

 

* * *

 

**Skyhold, 9:41 Dragon**

“Tell me more about Samson.”

Cullen could not think of a topic he wanted less to discuss with Cecily. The man their soldiers had encountered at Haven had fought like a demon—no, more dangerous than that. He had been impervious to their blows, faster than they thought possible, and strong enough to cleave right through the Inquisition’s best armor. The idea of the Inquisitor facing him down made him sick.

But it was more than that. “Samson was … someone I failed,” he admitted.

She listened patiently as he explained who Samson had been, and who Maddox was. As he had expected, her features filled with horror when he told her about the crime that had led to their fates. “Love letters? Meredith made a mage Tranquil over _letters_?”

“She wielded the brand for petty offenses,” Cullen said unsteadily. “And I … I allowed it. Or, at least, did nothing to stop it.” His chest tightened with shame. “I was so paranoid about blood magic after what happened in Ferelden—but that is no excuse.”

He took a breath, then continued. “Samson had been a good man, a good Templar, but the lyrium addiction made him desperate. He became a fixture of Kirkwall’s underworld. There was no task he would not take on for a bit of lyrium dust.”

“It says something of Samson that he would seek out Maddox in the chaos in Kirkwall,” Cecily said after a long pause. “Perhaps … perhaps there is still something left of the man he once was.”

“Perhaps,” Cullen agreed heavily. “Although I would not like to rely on that. He may simply have been shrewd enough to recognize an extraordinary resource. Whatever he once was, he joined Corypheus willingly. And he is _dangerous_ , Inquisitor. I presume you’ve read my instructions to the men on engaging him in battle.”

She nodded. “I will reiterate the order when we arrive. No one is to attempt to fight Samson alone.”

Cullen looked at her, wondering how she would react to this next part. “We have soldiers ready to escort you to the stronghold immediately. And I plan to accompany you.”

“You do know that order applies to our Commander as well, I presume?” she said—lightly, but Cullen could hear the tension in her voice. “Dagna still has not found a way to break the red lyrium armor.”

“All the more reason for me to go,” Cullen said. “I would sleep better knowing I would be at your side, should you face him.”

She looked as if she wanted to argue. He could see it in her eyes, see her thinking, _I would sleep better knowing you would be safe in Skyhold_. He braced himself for an argument—but she simply nodded instead. “Very well. We’ll depart at your leave, Commander.”

Then she reached out her hand for his, stepped close, and gave him a brief, fierce kiss. “But for the Maker’s sake, promise me you’ll be careful.”

He kissed her back. “I’ll be exactly as careful as you are.”

“I should probably find that more reassuring than I do,” she said wryly.


	2. Maddox

* * *

 

**Lowtown, 9:32 Dragon**

One of the strangest things about lyrium withdrawal was the way it made terms like _hot_ or _cold_ seem meaningless. During an attack—like the one he had just come through—Samson could veer between feeling as if his skin had turned to ice and feeling as if his blood might actually boil inside him from the heat. Now that the attack had subsided, the Kirkwall air felt temperate against his skin, but what did he know anymore? He took a sip of water from his wineskin—he wasn’t about to spend coin on alcohol when it might go to lyrium—and tried to still the shaking in his limbs.

Footsteps approached his corner in Lowtown. Samson briefly hoped that it might be someone with a job—one that would pay this time—but instead, it was the Ferelden mercenary from the day before, the one looking for Vincento’s son. _Hawke. That was her name_.

“Ah. You again. Any luck finding the boy?” he asked, not out of any real interest.

“Indeed. I found Feynriel and sent him—well, to some friends.” The mercenary’s voice was friendly, even charming, but Samson could feel an edge in it. “So I thought I’d come by and let you know. I knew an upstanding, caring man like yourself would wish to know that he was well.”

He’d have known that for sarcasm even without the biting tone. _As if I don’t know what I am._ “Spit it out, woman,” he growled. “I’m not in the mood for games.”

Hawke gave him a cool, appraising look. “Very well. Did you know that the people you sent him to were slavers?”

Samson’s last dose of lyrium had been days ago, too long for comfort—but not so long that he had lost his abilities. His skin prickled and he could see the coils of magic rising off this woman as she gathered her power close, ready for a fight. _Apostate._ A powerful one at that, unless he missed his guess.

“Of course not,” he said scornfully, steeling himself to shatter her magic if she tried anything. “Although the boy should have been more suspicious of anyone offering to take him out of Kirkwall for free.”

Hawke’s hand lashed out and grabbed the front of his tunic. Samson hadn’t been expecting a physical attack from a mage and he stumbled, startled.

“ _You_ should have been more suspicious,” she hissed. “Feynriel’s just a child. He’s not experienced enough to know that the world isn’t out to do him any favors. You, on the other hand, are. I think you knew damn well what your Captain was—you just chose not to ask the questions that might confirm it, didn’t you?” She gave him a hard shake and then shoved him back. “And then you sent Feynriel straight into his grasp.”

“Well, you saved the boy. So what’s the issue?” Samson grumbled, adjusting his clothes.

“Feynriel’s alive, but the girl you sent to them is dead,” Hawke said coldly. “So I’m here to give you fair warning. The next time you put desperate people in a slaver’s hands, I’m coming back for you.” She smiled unpleasantly. “And it won’t be with an invitation to a party.”

“Why not just kill me now?” Samson called as she walked away.

She glanced back at him, amused contempt written on every line of her face. “You’re too pathetic to kill at the moment. It would be like stepping on a lyrium-addicted rat. Not really worth the mess.”

Samson glowered at the mercenary as she disappeared into the Lowtown night. _I can’t help people leave the city for free—I’d never get paid again. Wasn’t my fault the only people willing to take the boy out of Kirkwall were slavers. I had no reason to think the Captain was working for Tevinter._

_But she’s right. Some part of me knew._

_Andraste’s blood. What have I become?_

 

* * *

 

 **Kirkwall, 9:37 Dragon**  

Samson had thought the aftermath of the Qunari attack bad, but the Qunari were amateurs at destruction compared to mages and Templars. The battles that had followed the conflict in the Gallows had shattered many areas of Kirkwall—and, of course, the damage was worst in Lowtown, leaving many of the city’s poor homeless and displaced. Makeshift tents were set up amidst the rubble; fights broke out regularly over supplies and space.

Samson kept his head down and minded his own affairs. Business was good at the moment; many of the mages who had escaped the Gallows sought him out for aid in leaving Kirkwall for good. Some of his old contacts were now missing, but new ones had cropped up—the mage underground had quickly reorganized to evacuate their people from the city. Many of the mages were even paying him in lyrium that they’d snuck from the Circle when they escaped. He supposed he would have to leave Kirkwall eventually, but so long as the lyrium supply was so generous he had good reason to remain.

He had moved his base of operations out to the docks, which had seen less fighting and had fewer refugees than Lowtown. Things were slow, today, but the supply of lyrium that he kept strapped beneath his clothes would keep him for a while, and he was not worried. Still, he was glad when the door to his stolen office pushed open—until he recognized the battered, filthy man who had pushed it open.

“Hello, Samson.”

“Maddox!” Samson rose to his feet, stunned.

“I heard I could find you here.” The Tranquil held out a small paper packet. “I have lyrium dust. Not very much, but some. If you would trade me coin for it, perhaps I could buy food. I am very hungry.”

The gauntness of his face told Samson that this was an understatement. There was also an ugly bruise on Maddox’s cheek and a gash down his arm, and he could guess where they had come from. Kirkwall was angry, and most Kirkwallers would see Maddox’s robes and assume _mage_ , not realizing that he was Tranquil, that he had no magic and could not fight back. He looked nothing like the eager, naïve young man who had begged Samson for help in reaching his sweetheart.

Samson felt his jaw tighten. _If only I’d said no when he asked me to carry those damned letters._

“Come with me,” the former Templar said roughly, accepting the little packet. “I’ve got some food, and a place where you can sleep. You can’t be out here alone.”

 

* * *

 

 **Temple of Dumat, 9:41 Dragon**  

“Hello, Inquisitor.”

Cecily knew who this man must be even before Cullen said, “It’s Maddox, Samson’s Tranquil. Something’s wrong. I’ll send for the healers.”

“That would be a waste, Knight-Captain Cullen,” Maddox said, seeming … almost pleased. “I drank my entire supply of blightcap essence. It won’t be long now.”

Cecily’s chest tightened. “We wouldn’t have hurt you,” she said, as if it made any difference now. “We just wanted to ask you some questions, Maddox.”

“Yes,” he said calmly. “That is what I could not allow. I destroyed the camp with fire. We all agreed it was best. Our deaths ensured Samson had time to escape.”

“You threw your lives away—for _Samson_? Why?” Cullen growled.

“He saved me even before he needed me,” Maddox said. “He gave me purpose again. I … wanted to help …”

And then his eyes closed.

Cecily blinked back sudden tears. _Love letters. That’s what brought him this fate. Love letters._ She looked over at Cullen; her Commander was shaking his head, his jaw clenched, regret and guilt and anger mixing on his face.

“We should check the camp,” he said, his voice low and unsteady. “There may still be something here Dagna can use.”

* 

Cecily could not bear the idea of leaving Maddox in that red-lyrium-addled wreck; the Inquisition’s soldiers bore his body to a grove several miles south, where she used her magic to dig him a grave. Cullen, Dorian, and Varric helped her gather a few stones for a makeshift marker, and she thought it looked rather peaceful when it was done. It was the best they could do for the Tranquil. It felt pitifully small.

She thought of Stroud, of the Divine, and she wondered if Samson would feel the same way about Maddox, that same combination of gratitude and frustration and pain and regret when he thought about the life lost to save his.

 _“He used to be kind” only goes so far,_ Cullen had said. And she knew that he was right. Samson was so deep into red lyrium use that he might not even be sane any more—that letter he’d left for Cullen certainly suggested madness. But she hoped enough of him remained to feel sorrow over Maddox’s sacrifice. The former mage deserved to have someone remember him.


	3. Scars

* * *

 

**Kirkwall, 9:37-9:40 Dragon**

In the first days after the Kirkwall rebellion, Cullen thought his task was to maintain order as best as possible until the Chantry sent aid. So he spread the word that the Rite of Annulment was no longer in effect and promised safety and amnesty to any mage who wished to return to the Circle. Then he issued a clear order to his Templars: they could fight in self-defense, but otherwise they were to engage mages in combat if and only if civilians were in danger. The fighting had to stop before it tore Kirkwall apart.

A week after the rebellion, he still had not received word from the Order, and only a handful of mages remained in the Gallows—ten in all, six of them children, and one so elderly that he frequently mistook Cullen for his Knight-Commander of many years ago. Cullen did what he could to restore their shattered Circle to some semblance of order. He soon saw that this would not be possible. The Gallows had been destroyed too thoroughly, and Kirkwall was too angry, and the Chantry still had not intervened. So he made arrangements for some of his Templars to escort their mages to Ostwick, a Circle with a reputation for being quiet and relatively safe.

The remaining knights went to work repairing the city and supporting Guard-Captain Aveline’s efforts to keep Kirkwall from collapsing into chaos. Aveline regarded them with deep suspicion, but ever the pragmatist, she accepted their help so long as Cullen and the others did not get in her way. And there was plenty of work to go around. Opportunists looked at Kirkwall and saw a city in chaos with no one to protect it. Cullen did his best to prove the scavengers wrong, still waiting for word from the Chantry, for reinforcements, for new orders, for _something_.

It was six months before Cullen realized the truth. No one from the Chantry would be coming; no one from the Order would be contacting them. Kirkwall was on its own, and so were its Templars.

A year after the Circle rebellion, Cullen’s lip was sliced open by a slaver in Kirkwall’s alienage. Kirkwall’s defenders were spread thin that day and he’d gone alone to investigate rumors about disappearances among the elves. He soon found himself hopelessly outnumbered and trapped in an alleyway. He gripped his sword and prepared to die fighting—but then the alley filled with magic, primal and powerful as a thunderstorm. Hawke’s Dalish friend had heard the battle and had come to help.

Only after the fight did it seem to occur to her that he was still a Templar; she blinked at him warily, shifting her feet, saying nothing. So he bowed to her. “You have my thanks,” he said sincerely. Then he winced—the cut on his face was much deeper than he’d thought. Blood ran into his mouth; he could taste it on his tongue.

“You’re hurt,” she said. “Oh, but of course you know that. I’m not much good at healing, but I’ll give it a try, since it’s not so bad really. Unless you’d rather I didn’t.”

Cullen did not suppose that accepting healing from a Dalish apostate was entirely proper, but since he still had not heard anything from the Chantry or the Order, he did as he saw fit. “I would appreciate that,” he mumbled, wiping the blood gingerly from his lips, trying not to pull at the wound.

“You’ll probably still have a scar,” she warned him, raising her hand and reaching out with her magic. “Although I’m told shemlen women like them. Or was that shemlen men?”

She was right, there was a scar, but at least it healed neatly and quickly.

Then Prince Sebastian Vael regained his throne in Starkhaven and sent—well, he described it as “aid.” And the Starkhaven troops did help, in a way; the extra hands rebuilt homes and streets and Hightown stalls. But the Starkhaven contingent included Templars, who searched, constantly, and asked many questions about Hawke and especially about Anders. Nothing they said could seem to convince the Prince that they would have turned over Anders if they’d had him.

Aveline began asking pointed questions of her own, about when Starkhaven would need its troops back. Her expression grew stonier and stonier every time she was rebuffed with an answer such as “soon” or “when Kirkwall no longer needs us.” It was increasingly clear that Starkhaven’s “aid” was also the vanguard of an invasion force. Cullen started quietly passing Aveline intelligence he gleaned from the Starkhaven Templars about the troops’ orders from Prince Sebastian; he also shared information about clandestine ways through the city, former Templar safe houses, weapons stocks, and other things that the Order had previously kept secret. When the invasion came, Starkhaven would find Kirkwall’s resistance surprisingly organized and well-prepared.

And meanwhile, mages all over Thedas grew restless and the Templars cracked down harder; finally, at Andoral's Reach, the First Enchanters voted to dissolve the Circles. In response, the Lord Seeker declared the Templars independent from the Chantry, and Thedas spiraled into war.

Cullen got extremely drunk the night he heard that news. He’d given his life to the Chantry, to the Templar order, thinking that he could do some good, that he could protect people. Time and time again he’d failed, been unable to protect himself, much less those under his charge. And now he was powerless to do anything while the entire world burned—burned because of something that had started in Kirkwall, in his Circle.

Some part of him had still assumed—or maybe just hoped—that the Chantry would do _something_. Divine Justinia was trying, he supposed, but it seemed to him that she had moved too slowly, that now the world was too fucking _broken_ for anyone to put back together.

Maybe if he’d paid closer attention, stopped Meredith sooner, not been so lost in his rage over Kinloch Hold, maybe the world would never have broken at all.

Two months later, Seeker Cassandra Pentaghast was standing in the Gallows courtyard demanding to speak with him.

“I am afraid our guest quarters are not prepared for a visitor of your status,” he said after greeting her, gesturing about at the piles of rubble. “We were able to restore the Templars’ quarters, but since then we have had … other priorities.”

“So I have heard,” she said, giving him an appraising look. “You have had your Templars repairing homes, breaking up street brawls, guarding supplies, fighting slavers, and occasionally following the orders of Aveline Hendyr, a known associate of the Champion.”

“We should have been out looking for mages to kill, I suppose,” he said wearily. “Forgive me for putting this bluntly, Seeker, but if those are your orders for me you have my resignation. I will not help the Lord Seeker tear Thedas apart.” He could barely stand to swallow his regular dose of lyrium anymore.

“I am not here to deliver orders,” the Seeker said. “At least, not to you. But I _am_ here to offer you a chance to do more.”

As she described the Inquisition, its structure, its purpose, Cullen felt something like hope again. _If her Inquisition can do what she claims, and I can help it—then I must. It will not erase my failures. But at least I might atone for some of them._

 

* * *

 

**Temple of Dumat, 9:41 Dragon**

> _Cullen,_
> 
> _You’re fighting the wrong battle, just as you did in Kirkwall. Drink enough lyrium and its song reveals the truth._
> 
> _The Chantry used us, discarded us. Why would you pledge yourself to this Inquisition, make yourself their servant again? Corypheus has made me his general and his vessel of power. The red lyrium will help you see the future Corypheus plans to build us._
> 
> _There is nothing to fear in its song, and plenty left for you here. Take it. See._
> 
> _Samson_

 “Does he expect me to understand?” Cullen scoffed when Cecily asked what was in the letter.

But the terrible thing was, he _did_ understand. At least parts of it. Hadn’t he felt abandoned by the Chantry and the Order? Hadn’t he needed something else to give him a purpose, felt lost before he found the Inquisition?

He felt no urge to drink red lyrium. But he understood, now, why his former brother followed the Darkspawn magister, why Maddox had in turn followed Samson. Corypheus had given them what the Inquisition had given Cullen. A cause, a purpose, a hope for something better to come.

 _A frightening thought_.

 

* * *

 

They were halfway back to Skyhold when Dorian pulled his horse up next to hers. “Cecily. Might we …” He paused, uncertain. Which made Cecily worry. She had _never_ seen Dorian uncertain.

“Might we stop at Redcliffe, before returning to Skyhold?” he finished. “I find myself _very_ curious about what my family’s retainer has been directed to do. And …” he trailed off.

Cecily heard the unspoken words. _I may not get another chance._ Something big was gathering on the horizon; she could feel it, and apparently the others could as well. “I’ll tell Cullen,” she said. “And if your family’s retainer is there to knock you on the head I hope he’s prepared for a fight.”

“Yes, if it’s a trap, we escape and kill everyone,” Dorian said brightly. “We’re good at that.”

*

It was not a trap. It was worse. It was his father.

His father’s eyes immediately flickered to Cecily, and for a moment, Dorian saw hope in them. His stomach clenched. _Yes, Father, I know. She’s pretty and clearly a mage and you just can’t help but wonder if she’s cured my little ‘fixation,’ can you?_

For one awful moment Dorian was back in that room in Qarinus, watching his father prepare the ritual, growing more and more afraid as his questions about what this was for were met with vague replies.

“It’s for you. To rid you of your unnatural fixation, to give you the future you deserve,” his father had finally admitted.

_No, Father. That ritual was never for my benefit. You were willing to risk driving me mad, hollowing out my mind, all for you and your legacy._

When his father’s gaze returned to him, he flinched at the anger in Dorian’s eyes. And then, to Dorian’s surprise, he looked a bit ashamed. “Inquisitor Trevelyan,” Dorian said, his mouth unexpectedly dry. “This is my father, Magister Halward Pavus.”

His father’s expression grew alarmed. “Inquisitor? I had not meant for you to be involved.”

“I take the safety of my people seriously. If you wished to avoid my attention, you should not have tried to lure Dorian to a secret meeting without informing him of its purpose,” Cecily said crisply. “Frankly I’m shocked that this _isn’t_ a trap.”

“You have a suspicious mind, Inquisitor, though I suppose you must,” Halward sighed. “I apologize for the deception.”

“Don’t talk to me. Talk to your son. You went to enough trouble to speak with him,” she said.

“Yes, and what is this, exactly, Father?” Dorian snapped, finally finding his tongue. “Ambush? Kidnapping? Warm family reunion?”

The conversation deteriorated from there. Halward acted as if his anger was a willful temper tantrum, told the Inquisitor that he had always been this way. So Dorian said exactly what he knew would most upset his father: “I prefer the company of men. As in sex.” His father stiffened and scolded him for causing a scene. Dorian threw the ritual in his face—told Cecily what his father had been willing to risk to ‘cure’ him. Cecily looked properly appalled, bless her.

“Dorian, please. If you’ll only listen to me,” Halward begged.

“Why? So you can spout more convenient lies?”

“If I knew I would drive you to the Inquisition …”

“You didn’t,” Dorian said, furious that Halward would think him so childishly unprincipled, think that he’d picked a cause at random just to get away. “I joined the Inquisition because it’s the right thing to do. Once, I had a father who would have known that.”

Halward could have said a thousand things that would have made Dorian storm out, that would have ended this right then. Instead, he said the one thing that threatened to break Dorian’s resolve.

“Once I had a son who trusted me. A trust I betrayed. I only wanted to talk to him. To hear his voice again. To ask him to forgive me.”

Harsh, stinging tears rose at the back of Dorian’s eyes, and for a moment his throat was too choked to get words out. He looked over at Cecily.

“Do you want to hear what he has to say?” she asked, pitching her voice low.

He nodded.

“Then I’ll be outside."

* 

Cecily waited outside that tavern for over two hours. She supposed she could have walked around the town, checked up on the Inquisition’s work there—but she had told Dorian she would stay, and she was still wary of the chance of a trap. She kept her ears alert, not eavesdropping, but listening for any sign of trouble, for any sign that Halward Pavus had brought people to drag Dorian away unwillingly.

None came. And finally, Dorian pushed open the door to the tavern, his dark eyes rimmed with red.

“He says we’re too much alike. Too much pride.” Dorian shook his head and laughed humorlessly. “Maker knows what you must think of me now, after that whole display.”

“It would take a lot more than a fight with your father to change my opinion of you,” she said, standing and putting a hand on his shoulder. “Are you all right?”

He sighed. “No, not really. But I am glad I came.”

There it was again, that unspoken sentence. _I may not get another chance._

“Maybe the next time you see him will be easier,” she said.


	4. The night before the battle

* * *

 

Suddenly it seemed that everyone in Skyhold had tasks on their mind, things they would regret leaving undone.

Vivienne tried to heal her lover. Josephine began working to restore her family’s trading connections. Cassandra and Leliana both contemplated the possibility of becoming Divine. The Iron Bull passed on the news that the Qunari were offering the Inquisition an alliance—although that did not go quite as planned. Cecily had no regrets when they returned from the Storm Coast with the Chargers and no alliance. She’d heard the way Gatt said the word “mage;” she didn’t much like the idea of an ally who would look for a chance to sew her mouth shut as soon as Corypheus was dead. She was sorry that Bull was now Tal-Vashoth, but Dorian quietly assured her that he would be all right. “I suspect he’s been more The Iron Bull than Hissrad for a while now,” he told her.

When Cecily and her team returned from the Storm Coast, her advisors were waiting with news. Corypheus’s armies had been traced to the Arbor Wilds. Morrigan thought she knew what the Elder One sought there: an Eluvian, an ancient mirror that might give the magister a path into the Fade.

Cecily would have wished for more time to plan, but if Morrigan was right, they could not delay.

The Inquisition was going to war.

 

* * *

 

The night before their departure, Cecily could not sleep.

She kept trying to think of things they might have forgotten, problems that might arise. Did she have Dagna’s rune ready to use when she met Samson? Would their allies be there in time? Could Leliana’s agents move quickly enough? Could the Inquisition’s armies hold against Samson’s remaining red Templars—had the blows they’d dealt his forces been severe enough to hobble him as they’d hoped? Would Cullen— _no._ She could not permit herself to think about that, not if she wanted to remain sane.

Finally, Cecily acknowledged that sleep was not going to come. She rose from her bed and lit her fire with a quick tendril of magic, then sat cross-legged on the floor in front of its warmth. For the first time since she’d left the Circle, she began the Cycle of the Elements. It was a simple exercise, taught to apprentices who were still trying to learn to control their power, but her mentor Lydia had encouraged it as a form of meditation as well. It was worth trying, at least.

She began with fire, the element she’d always been most at ease with. She opened her hands palms-up and let a slim tongue of flame blossom from her right hand, arc in front of her, then fall to meet her left hand, where she melted it back to magic and drew its mana back into herself. Then, ice; a network of fine crystals rose from her left hand and glittered in the firelight before they began their descent to her right hand. Lightning and spirit soon followed; then she began again with fire. The anchor on her left hand pulsed a bit in response to the magic, but she was used to that, now. 

Lydia had said the Chant during these exercises. Cecily had not done that in years, but she began now, praying softly as the elements rose and fell in front of her.

“And there I saw the Black City, its towers forever stain’d, its gates forever shut,” she whispered. “Heaven has been filled with silence, I knew then, and cross’d my heart with shame.”

_An ironic choice of passage. Is that what Corypheus saw?_

She switched to a different verse. “Maker, my enemies are abundant. Many are those who rise up against me. But my faith sustains me; I shall not fear the legion, should they set themselves against me.”

_Well, that’s a lie. I do fear the legion. But I cannot let that stop me._

A knock downstairs sent an arch of ice crystals collapsing to the floor. Cecily stood, shivering as some of the ice found her toes and melted between them, grabbed her robe from a nearby chair, and went to see who it was.

There was no one there by the time she opened the door. Annoyed, she moved to close it—but then she saw the figure on the stairs.

“Cullen?”

“I—oh!” he said, turning back to her. “I knocked, but then realized how foolish I’d been. You must have been asleep. I’m so sorry.”

Cecily couldn’t help laughing at that. “I was not. Nor was I anywhere near sleep. I cannot seem to close my eyes.”

“Nor can I,” Cullen admitted. “I keep thinking about what awaits us. What awaits _you_.” He stepped back to her, stopping just short of touching her. “It … was harder than I expected, to fight alongside you at Samson’s stronghold. You are skilled, and careful, and have loyal people with you. But I hated seeing you in danger.” His mouth thinned unhappily. “And yet now I cannot be at your side, and that seems even worse.”

“I feel just the same,” she admitted. “I don’t enjoy watching people try to kill you, but if they’re going to try I would rather be there to stop them. I won’t have that option in the Arbor Wilds.”

He brushed his hand through her hair, tucking it behind her shoulder, and then pulled her into his arms. She returned the embrace fiercely, trying to convince herself that if she held him tightly enough they _would_ come back here, that nothing bad could happen.

Cullen’s mouth soon found hers. It felt different, somehow, than all of the other times they’d kissed—more intense, almost desperate, as if he were worried that she might vanish from his arms right then. She wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed him back the same way, trying to drive away his fears, and hers.

He broke the kiss and rested his forehead against hers, one hand cupping her cheek, his breath coming quickly. “Cecy, I …”

“Would you like to come upstairs?” she blurted out.

“I—I would,” he said.

Cecily put her hand in his and pulled him through the door, pausing to bar it behind them. She wondered if he’d heard the full invitation in her words—wondered if she should say something else to make it clear what she was asking.

Halfway up the stairs Cullen stopped, looked as if he might say something, and then took her face in his hands and kissed her, tender and inviting, no fear in it now. When he pulled back—not far, just far enough to look at her—his eyes were almost golden in the soft torchlight. “So. Since we can’t sleep, what do you want to do?” he asked softly.

She knew, then, that he had heard her invitation, and this was his way of asking if she was sure. She caught her breath. “I want—” She swallowed nervously. “I want you. Upstairs. In my bed. Naked, preferably. If that’s what you want.”

She almost didn’t get to finish that sentence before he was kissing her again. “Maker, yes,” he breathed against her mouth.

She took his hands, smiled at him, and pulled him the rest of the way up the stairs.

*

Some time later, as she rested her head on his shoulder, Cullen stroked her hair and whispered, “Are you awake?”

“Yes. But I do feel much more relaxed,” Cecily murmured, nestling closer to him. “I may actually sleep tonight.”

“I—perhaps I should go back to my own bed?” he said hesitantly. “I am not the most restful sleeper.”

She propped herself on one elbow to look at him. “Are you telling me you snore?” she teased.

He chuckled. “No. But I do have dreams. Not pleasant ones.”

She brushed her fingers against his cheek. “I would really like you to stay,” she said softly. “I think I’d sleep better with you here, bad dreams or no.”

His answering smile told her that this was the response he’d hoped for. “You are—I have never felt anything like this,” he said, his voice low and warm. “Cecy, I—I love you. I hope it’s not too soon to say that.”

She leaned in and kissed him. “I love you too,” she said, almost shyly. “Does that mean you’re staying?”

He chuckled and kissed her back. “I haven’t decided yet. Do _you_ snore?” he asked.

“Certainly not. What an accusation to make about your Inquisitor,” she said, resting her head back on his chest and running her hand down his side. To her surprise, he jumped a bit and his skin shivered underneath her fingers. She laughed, delighted. “You’re ticklish!”

“Am not,” he said, his voice muffled from trying to hold back his laughter.

“How did I not realize this much earlier?” She ran her fingers over his side again, drawing another shiver from him.

He reached down and caught her hand, then easily rolled both of them over, pinning her underneath him, his body warm against hers. He grinned down at her. “Shall we find out if _you’re_ ticklish?” he asked, tracing his fingertips down the inside of her arm, watching for her reaction.

“I’m not,” she lied breathlessly. “But you’re welcome to try and prove me wrong.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Huge thanks to the Dragon Age Wiki for posting the verses from the Chant of Light: http://dragonage.wikia.com/wiki/Chant_of_Light_verses


	5. Shattered

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alternate title: Samson hates sarcastic Hawke.

* * *

 

 **The Wounded Coast, 9:37 Dragon**  

Samson made his decision as soon as they brought the hostage to the Wounded Coast. He had already been uneasy with the use of blood magic, and if anyone had asked him he would have said that it was a bad idea to kidnap a Grey Warden. But taking the Champion’s brother prisoner? That was just bloody suicide.

He snuck out while Grace and Thrask were arguing; he worried someone would try to stop him, but these idiots were too stupid to notice him slip away. He moved quietly at first, but as he put more distance between himself and the others he quickened his pace, not caring if his footsteps made noise. He hoped he could get out of the Wounded Coast before …

“Well, well. Aren’t you the upstanding citizen who sent Feynriel to that slaver? Or was that another ex-Templar begging for bits of lyrium dust in Lowtown?”

Samson stopped, squared his shoulders, and turned to face the Champion of Kirkwall.

Wealth and status hadn’t changed Hawke much since he’d met her six years ago; her clothing was less ragged, but she still had the same cool confidence, the same sharp tongue. And the same determination to involve herself in everyone else’s business.

As if Hawke herself weren’t bad enough, she’d brought friends. The Guard-Captain stood behind the Champion, looking furious; a strange elf with pale silver hair glared at him with deep contempt, his hand already on the sword hilt between his shoulders; the storytelling dwarf from The Hanged Man had his crossbow leveled directly at Samson’s gut.

“Well, here you are. You’ve been sticking your nose in every problem in Kirkwall since you stumbled off the boat,” he sneered. “Looks like it’s finally caught up with you and yours.”

“Where’s Carver?” the apostate snapped. She didn’t bother to hide the magic coiling around her. Her companions looked equally grim. If they didn’t like his answer, Samson suspected that this was going to hurt.

“Your brother is alive. As for me, I’m leaving.”

“Had a change of heart? How unexpectedly sensible of you,” she said acidly. “Let me guess. They’re using blood magic.”

He snorted. “What else? I thought with Meredith gone I might take up the shield again, but I don’t have the stomach to turn against all that’s right and natural just to get rid of her. Maybe she was right—give them a hint of freedom, mages go bad.”

Fortunately the Champion didn’t interpret that as a personal insult. Or perhaps she just didn’t care what he thought. “Oh, just go,” she sighed with a little wave of her hand. “Try not to help anyone kidnap my brother again.”

 _That one thinks she’s smart_ , Samson thought bitterly as he walked away. _But she’s headed for a bad end. This whole damned city is._

At least there might still be something to salvage out of this mess.

*

Cullen knew he wasn’t going to like what he found at the Wounded Coast. He also knew that Samson was not telling him everything. His former roommate had fallen far from the honest man he’d been as a Templar; he was unkempt and shifty, answering questions with questions, assuring Cullen that he was only there to help the Order stop blood mages, “like any good citizen.”

And so of course, when Samson led them to their destination, Cullen found none other than Hawke, standing on the site of a recent battle, glaring at the surviving mages and Templars with an expression that probably had a few of them wetting their smallclothes.

“Champion. Samson never said you were involved in this,” he said through gritted teeth. _And why is that, Samson? Did you really think this sorry lot would kill her?_

“You know me. I just _love_ being involved in things,” Hawke said. She gave the Knight-Captain a sweet, cutting smile.

Cullen was not in the mood for Hawke’s irreverence at the moment. “I trust you were here to stop these traitors, not join them?”

“They kidnapped my brother.” For once, there was no humor in Hawke’s tone.

Cullen caught Carver’s eye. The young Warden looked back at him with a sour expression. “Yes, it’s been a splendid day,” he said sarcastically. “I can see that Kirkwall’s Templars continue to do a bang-up job of stopping blood mages. Do pass my compliments on to the Knight-Commander.”

Rage filled Cullen—and panic. _He’s right. Even with everything Meredith has done, we are still losing._ But he forced that thought down and pretended to ignore Carver. “I suppose you’ll recommend mercy for the survivors?” he asked Hawke.

“You know me too well, Knight-Captain,” she said with a little smirk. Then her expression turned serious again. “This will continue to happen so long as Meredith is in charge. You must know that.”

But Cullen was already pushing past her to arrest the conspirators.

As they gathered the mages together for the march back to the Circle, Samson cleared his throat. “D’you think—I helped you today. Surely the Knight-Commander would see that and consider reinstating me. If you put in a word for me.”

Cullen turned to him, incredulous. “You must be joking. Reinstate you, for joining a movement to depose her? Just because you had a convenient change of heart when the Champion showed up?”

“That’s not how it happened,” Samson growled.

“Plead your case to Meredith, if you must. But leave me out of it,” Cullen sighed.

When they returned to Kirkwall, Samson did not accompany them.

 

* * *

 

 **The Temple of Mythal, 9:41 Dragon**  

Samson had to suppress a laugh when he saw the Herald of Andraste. He had seen her from a distance at Haven, of course, but this was his first good look at her. Up close, he found her utterly ordinary.

_This? This is the creature who pretends to be my master’s rival? This frail little mageling?_

“Inquisitor. You and those elf-things don’t know when to stop,” he chuckled. “You’ve hunted us half across Thedas. I should’ve guessed you’d follow us into this hole.”

Behind her, Seeker Pentaghast tightened her grip on her sword. “We would follow you further to stop your mad plan,” she declared.

The Inquisitor watched him, her gray eyes wide and calm—and almost sad. “Maddox died at the Temple of Dumat,” she told him. “He died to save you. Is there enough of you left in there to care?”

Regret filled Samson. “Don’t pretend you know me, Inquisitor,” he snarled. “I told him not to stay, but he believed in our cause. As should you. Do you really think you can match my master, little mage?” he mocked. “Even if you drink from the Well, you’ll never use its wisdom as he could.”

“And if you drink from the Well, it will drive you mad,” she replied. “You can still turn away from this, Samson.” She almost sounded as if she believed that—as if she thought she could help him.

 _Idiot girl._ “Being force-fed Chantry lyrium was good for something. This armor makes me a fortress, mind and body.” He drew on the power of the red lyrium, then. He let the scales and plates of his fortress move and glow; he let the false Herald and her lackeys see the power he held. “So, Inquisitor,” he said, drawing his sword, beckoning to her with one hand. “How will this go?”

The Inquisitor met his eyes, then reached into her belt and drew out a flat disc—a rune, one Samson had never seen before. “Not the way you were expecting, I think,” she said.

The rune began to glow; he could feel its vibrations even from where he stood.

And then Samson’s armor ripped and shattered.

Pain engulfed him, a thousandfold worse than the lyrium withdrawal he’d suffered all those years ago. The red lyrium that ran through his being, that cradled him in its fortress, cracked and shifted and broke, tumbling to useless dust all around him.

As Samson fell to his knees, he choked out the order to attack. He tried to collect enough of himself to lift his sword, to join his brothers in battle. But he knew beyond a doubt that everything was over. He had failed his master, and there would be no forgiveness for it.


	6. The Well of Sorrows

* * *

 

Watching the Inquisitor examine the statue of Fen’Harel produced an odd out-of-body feeling in Solas.

He had known his fate would be tied to hers the moment he realized what had happened to the orb—what had happened to the anchor that Corypheus wanted for himself. Solas had saved her life because there was no other option, followed her to the Inquisition because he had no other choice. The last thing he had expected to find in this human was someone worthy of respect, someone open to the possibility that there was more to spirits and to the Fade than what she had learned in her Circle.

He had come to think of her as a friend, as much as someone like him was capable of being a friend. And he was increasingly sorry for all the lies of omission he had to make in this Temple. Pretending he didn’t know every word of the ancient inscriptions on the statues. Staying quiet as Morrigan confidently announced half-truths—half-truths gleaned through careful study, he knew, but half-truths nonetheless. He would not conceal anything that might keep them safe, but neither could he tell the others all he knew.

“Why would _this_ be here?” Morrigan asked, her eyes following the Inquisitor’s. “It depicts the Dread Wolf, Fen’Harel. Setting Fen’Harel in Mythal’s greatest sanctum is as blasphemous as painting Andraste naked in the Chantry!”

Solas clenched his jaw and remained silent.

“There are statues of Maferath, Andraste’s betrayer, in some Chantries,” Cecily mused. “Perhaps this serves a similar purpose?”

“In elven tales Fen’Harel tricks the gods into sealing themselves away in the Beyond for all time. This could be a reminder of vigilance for the faithful,” Morrigan agreed.

Solas could not keep silent at that. “For all your knowledge, Lady Morrigan, you cannot resist giving legend the weight of history. The wise do not mistake one for the other. ”

“And pray tell, what meaning does our elven expert sense lurking behind this?” Morrigan asked archly.

“None we can discern by staring at it.” Solas hoped that would be the end of it.

“Perhaps we’ll have time to study this place later,” Cecily said wistfully, giving the statue one last look. “We should move forward.”

* 

“I did not expect the Well to feel so … hungry.”

Morrigan’s description was surprisingly astute. Solas could feel that hunger as well—all of that knowledge, all of that history, that powerful will, yearning to reach beyond the confines of the Well.

“I am willing to pay the price the Well demands,” Morrigan said, open longing on her face as she gazed at its waters.

The Inquisitor’s expression was less entranced. She raised her chin in determination—or perhaps resignation. “As am I, if it means stopping Corypheus.”

Solas’s blood ran cold.

Morrigan turned to her in horror. “You lead the Inquisition. This is not a risk you can take. _I_ am the best suited to use its knowledge in your service.”

“I don’t think it’s just knowledge, Morrigan. It’s _will_ ,” the Inquisitor said quietly. “The will of the ancient elven priests. That’s what Abelas was telling us. Drinking from the Well will put you under a compulsion, a geas.”

Morrigan seemed impressed in spite of herself. “That … would match the legends,” she admitted. “You are right, we must be cautious. But we do not know what this geas will entail—or even if you are entirely correct. Let me drink.”

The Inquisitor shook her head. “I cannot ask this of you.”

“You are _asking_ nothing!” the sorceress said, frustrated. “I am willing, and I wish this.”

“Inquisitor, please. Let her take the risk,” Cassandra agreed. “You are too important to our cause.”

That was not an argument that would hold weight with the Inquisitor, Solas suspected. She was no fool—she knew the role she had to play, knew that she must occasionally send others into dangers that she could not face herself. But she also knew her duty. If the Inquisition needed the Well’s knowledge, she would consider it her responsibility to gain it, whatever the personal cost.

Someone had to partake of that power if they were to stop Corypheus. And Solas did not trust Morrigan. _Perhaps it would be better for the Inquisition if the Well went to someone who had its best interests in mind._

But it would not be better for their Inquisitor.

“Cecily,” he said urgently.

He did not normally use her given name, and it had the desired effect; she went still and met his eyes, clearly giving extra weight to his words. “If Lady Morrigan will risk the price, let her do so—but you should not drink from the Well.”

_I have lied to you in so many ways that you will likely never know, and you trusted me. Trust me now, my friend, when I tell you the truth. _Do not drink._ That Well will make you Mythal’s creature and you will never again be free. _

“All right,” the Inquisitor said at last. “Lady Morrigan, the Well is yours. Are you truly certain—“

But the sorceress was already walking into the Well.


	7. Return to Skyhold

* * *

 

Cecily lay on the floor in front of Morrigan’s Eluvian for a long moment, slightly sore from the impact, but mostly just incredulous at their escape.

“You all right there, Inquisitor?” Varric asked, standing with a wince.

“I’m fine. Everyone else?” she asked.

Solas, Cassandra, and Morrigan all murmured something in the affirmative.

“So, correct me if I’m wrong, but did we just escape Corypheus by jumping through an ancient elven mirror?” Varric asked, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “Forgive me, Inquisitor, but this shit is _weird_.”

Cecily couldn’t help a laugh. “I don’t disagree. The army is going to have no idea what happened to us.” Her stomach twisted when she thought of Cullen’s likely reaction. “I need to get to Leliana’s ravens to send them a message.”

*

The Commander knew something important had happened at the Temple when their enemy suddenly fell into a full retreat. The Red Templars were fearsome fighters, but they were badly outnumbered. A sane general would have withdrawn and regrouped immediately; Corypheus’s people stayed on the battlefield until late into the day. But, of course, winning or losing the battle was not really the point—the only thing that mattered was whether Cecily and the others had prevented Corypheus from claiming the Eluvian.

When the Inquisitor had not returned by nightfall, Cullen took a detachment of his best soldiers to sweep the Temple of Mythal. But she was gone, along with the three she’d taken with her.

They did, however, find Samson. Dagna’s rune had evidently done its work. Samson’s armor lay in ruins; he was badly injured, but alive.

“Take this man to our healers and make him well enough for questioning,” Cullen snapped, forcing down his rising panic. “He may be the only one who knows what happened to the Inquisitor.”

It was a full day before Samson regained consciousness. At first Cullen feared that Corypheus’s general would be reluctant to talk, but the former Templar was a broken man, and surprisingly forthcoming when Cullen and Leliana came to ask what had happened in the Temple of Mythal.

“Corypheus came for her, but the Well was already lost,” he muttered. “Then the Inquisitor and her lackeys vanished through that mirror. I don’t know how. My master tried to follow but could not.”

Leliana’s face brightened; she gestured for Cullen to follow her out of the tent. “The Eluvian!” she whispered. “They must have returned to Skyhold. She is all right, Commander.”

Cullen tried very hard to believe that.

* 

The journey back to Skyhold took some of the longest days of Cullen’s life. Three days after the battle at the Arbor Wilds, Leliana was finally able to exchange messages with Skyhold. She had been right. Cecily and the others were alive, thanks to Morrigan’s Eluvian. Still, Cullen knew he would not feel entirely at ease until he saw her again.

When they finally reached Skyhold, Cecily was waiting on the steps to their great hall, standing straight and proud, every inch the Inquisitor. She descended the stairs as her people marched into their fortress and immediately began pressing her hands to theirs, asking about injuries, assuring them that Corypheus had failed and the Inquisition had achieved its aims.

Cullen knew this was important, this moment of leadership, of thanks, so he hung back, waited until her journey through the soldiers brought her to his side. He met her eyes and saw his own relief mirrored on her face.

For once, Cullen didn’t care who saw, or what they might say. He took two fast steps forward and hugged the Inquisitor tight for all of Skyhold to see.

 

* * *

 

Cecily had hoped that she and Cullen would be able to take some time together with the army returned to Skyhold. Instead, the next two days were some of the busiest she’d ever experienced at the Inquisition. It seemed that every time they closed a door, someone was knocking at it two minutes later with a task that absolutely had to be accomplished immediately. Thanks had to be issued to their allies; soldiers had to be redeployed to avoid overtaxing Skyhold’s resources; Vivienne cornered her with a detailed plan for dealing with Morrigan should the sorceress attempt to abscond with the knowledge from the Well. Meanwhile, Orlais was already asking pointed questions about just how much longer the Inquisition would be needed.

All of this was important. Cecily knew that. But was it really too much to ask for one uninterrupted hour? She was seriously considering asking The Iron Bull to stand guard outside her door the next time she and Cullen went up to her chambers. It would be rather like hanging out a large, Qunari-shaped sign that said “The Inquisitor and the Commander are upstairs and naked, come back later,” and the Qunari in question would never stop teasing her about it, but Cecily was getting desperate.

It didn’t help that when she ran into Cole in the gardens, two days after the army’s return to Skyhold, the spirit boy took one look at her and said, “His scar curves. He’s smiling at you. Are his hands supposed to be there? Are yours?”

He blinked at her through his bangs. “You’re turning red. Why are you changing colors?”

“It’s called blushing, Cole. It may happen to you soon,” she said. “It happens when someone is embarrassed.”

“Oh,” Cole said. “Why are you embarrassed now?”

“Because those things are … private,” she explained as her face flushed again. “Most people—well, _I_ don’t talk about them.”

“Why not?” the spirit boy asked. “I don’t understand them, but they make you happy.” He smiled at her. “They make him happy too.”

Cecily walked straight from the gardens to Cullen’s office.

*

The Commander, unfortunately, was not alone. He was finishing a meeting with some of his soldiers, discussing supply routes and relief efforts. He caught her eye when she entered. “That will be all,” he finished, somewhat hurriedly.

The soldiers saluted him and walked out. Cecily could hear them whispering as they moved onto the battlements. _More talk for the barracks tonight, I suppose,_ she thought ruefully.

“Everything all right?” she asked.

“Now that you’re here? Yes.” He noticed that the door was a bit ajar and moved to shut it.

“Lock it. And then let’s put the desk in front of it,” Cecily suggested wryly.

He laughed, sliding the deadbolt into place. “It’s always something, isn’t it? But it won’t always be that way.”

“Maker, I hope not,” she said. She crossed the room and slid her arms around his neck. “Care to place bets on how long before someone comes looking for one of us?”

“I won’t put money on anything over five minutes,” he laughed. “But let’s tempt fate.” He leaned down and kissed her.

Cecily kissed him back. Half of her was waiting for that knock at the door, but when it didn’t come, she broke the kiss and moved to his side door, locking it as well. Cullen’s eyes gleamed as he slid the lock on his third door.

“Now we’ve done it,” he murmured. “Three doors locked. I give it one minute.”

“Then let’s make it a memorable minute,” Cecily said, perching on the edge of his desk—and knocking a glass bottle to the floor, where it shattered on the stone.

She jumped up. “Oh, Maker! I’m so sorry.”

Cullen looked from the bottle back to her. A broad grin spread across his face. With a sweep of his arm he cleared the desk, sending papers and pens and at least one inkwell crashing to the ground. He reached for her again, trapping her against the desk, his hands at her waist, his smile wicked and playful. Laughing, Cecily lay back and pulled him with her.

“If no one’s going to interrupt us, we should stop,” Cullen whispered a while later. “We _cannot_ do this on my _desk_.”

“No, of course not,” Cecily said, fighting for her breath. “Um. _Why_ not, exactly?”

He pressed his forehead to hers and smiled. “Because my bed is right upstairs. And to think, you said that was a bad idea.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OK, this chapter is basically just fluff, but how can you write a Cullen romance story and *not* include the desk?


	8. Judgment

* * *

 

**Kirkwall Docks, 9:40 Dragon**

Seventeen men now followed Samson.

It had transpired so gradually that Samson had not realized what was happening until it had already occurred. After the Order broke away from the Chantry and became obsessed with fighting rebel mages, more and more Templars abandoned it—only to find themselves falling prey to the lyrium withdrawal. Some unlucky Templars from small branches of the Order had found themselves cut off from lyrium simply because Thedas was in disarray and their supply lines had collapsed.

Samson had acquired a reputation as a man who knew how to find lyrium dust, and the former Templars had flocked to him to buy what he could spare—but then some stayed, offering to help his business, to serve him, if he would share his resources.

He did the best he could to keep their addictions fed along with his own. He set up jobs, assigned them to ferry apostates from place to place, established relationships with lyrium smugglers and with Templar suppliers willing to skim a bit off the top. But there was never enough.

Finally, luck had broken their way. A Tevinter merchant had promised them a generous payment in lyrium dust if they would guard his warehouse for a week, until his ship came for his cargo. Samson was not terribly happy that the job had brought them back to Kirkwall, where his face was known, but it could not be helped. The payment they offered would keep his men stable for a few months, at least.

He told his men to be cautious of the Guard during this job—that the cargo was stolen goods, weapons and artifacts and other baubles looted from Kirkwall’s abandoned Hightown homes. In reality, he had a strong suspicion that the “cargo” was human or elven. But what choice did Samson have? Someone was always just short of the amount he needed to stave off the pain. A few had been perilously close to madness before. If they had not taken this job, it would be someone else guarding these future slaves. Samson could not help them. But he could help his men, good people that the Chantry had tossed aside like garbage.

The former Templars were disciplined and well-trained. They walked their patrols carefully, relieved each other from their shifts on a precise schedule, kept their weapons sharp and their wits about them. It was still not enough. Not nearly enough.

Four days into their assignment, as Samson paced back and forth in front of the warehouse door, he heard a scream. He ordered Paxley to hold their position and he ran to see what was happening in the alleyway to the west.

When he got there, Ser Maurice and Ser Hale were dead, and Ser Lorrell was facing down an opponent—the silver-haired elf who had followed Hawke. Lorrell was a skilled warrior, but against this man he might as well have been a child with a stick. The elf simply dodged Lorrell’s swing and thrust his right hand through Lorrell’s breastplate and into his chest. Lorrell screamed, gurgled, and went limp.

The elf let Lorrell fall, then turned his head to speak to someone behind him. “Look at their shields. Former Templars.”

“As I feared,” sighed a female voice. Guard-Captain Aveline stepped into the alleyway, two guardsmen close behind her. “My informant said that Samson is leading them.”

The elf snorted. “Hawke should have killed him years ago.”

“Well, be sure to tell her that when she gets here. She and I can flip a coin for the privilege,” Aveline said grimly.

Samson ran.

 _I have to get my men out of here._ Abandoning a post was not normally a good business move for mercenaries, but he had a feeling his employers would not be around to complain.

 

* * *

 

**A camp outside Starkhaven, 9:40 Dragon**

There were nine of them, now.

 _The Chantry owed them more than this,_ Samson thought, looking around his ramshackle camp. Inside a nearby tent, he could hear one of them hissing in pain, trying and failing to keep silent as lyrium withdrawal stabbed through him. _And now these poor bastards are so desperate they look to me to lead them—even now, even after what happened in Kirkwall._

Samson threw a stick into the fire in disgust. The new fuel made the fire flare just a bit brighter—and that was when he saw the mage.

An elderly man was standing on the other side of the fire, perfectly still, and apparently unperturbed by Samson’s failure to acknowledge him. He was leaning against a staff and wore robes—something no one would have dared, these days, if they did not have the magic to back it up.

“Good evening,” the mage said, making Samson an oddly archaic little bow.

The man was gaunt, his gray hair ragged and wispy, his teeth broken and yellowed. His unkempt face formed a contrast to his robes, which were fine and clean, if a bit too big for the man. But he moved and spoke more easily than Samson would have expected for a man of his years; apparently mages did better outside Circles than Templars could.

“Am I correct in thinking that I speak to Samson, formerly of the Kirkwall Templars?” the mage continued, with a hint of an accent that Samson couldn’t quite identify.

“You do,” Samson said, standing. “And these are my men, former Templars all.” He hoped this mage was not there to fight them; stranger things had happened in this fucking war than an elderly mage deciding to make his last stand against a Templar.

“My name is Larius,” the mage said, walking around the fire. He came to a halt two paces from Samson and pulled something out of his pocket—a scrap of cloth wrapped around a small object. Samson tensed, but he sensed no magic from the man. “I am looking to recruit people of particular talents—men skilled in battle, ready to fight for a worthy cause.”

“Indeed? And what worthy cause is that?” Samson asked.

“I will tell you all you need to know, I assure you. But first, I believe you and your men may be interested in what I offer as payment. Pure, liquid lyrium.”

The mage unfolded the scrap of cloth to reveal a lyrium bottle—filled to its tip with a dark red substance.

Samson curled his lip in disgust. “I was a Templar, you daft asshole,” he snarled. “Lyrium _isn’t red_.”

“Oh, but some of it is. And its power, its song, makes your Templar lyrium look like a pale imitation,” Larius said. “Try it. You may consider this a sample.”

He lifted the bottle and pulled out its cork. The power that wafted from that red liquid struck Samson like a blow; his limbs began to shake, reminding him that he’d given his last dose to Paxley.

Before he’d really thought about it, he took the vial in his fingers and drained it dry.

 

* * *

 

 **Skyhold, 9:41 Dragon**  

Samson would say this for the Inquisitor: she did not waste time. When he woke up in an Inquisition cell in Skyhold, he assumed it would be months, or even years, before anyone bothered to do anything with him.

Instead, three days later he was dragged before the Inquisitor’s throne, while their Commander—Cullen fucking Rutherford, the half-mad Ferelden, Meredith’s eager lackey—recited a list of his crimes and declared a “personal interest” in his fate. The Inquisitor sat perched on her throne, her face a cool mask as she described how seriously she would take this sentence.

“The red lyrium will steal your vengeance,” Samson told the Inquisitor, meeting her infuriatingly calm gaze. Was there even a person behind those cold gray eyes? “Corypheus only delayed my corruption.”

“Are you still loyal to that _thing_?” Cullen growled. “He poisoned the Order, used them to kill thousands!”

“Templars have always been used!” Samson spat back at him. _How can you not see that?_

“And that justifies placing them in service to a Darkspawn magister who wants to destroy the world?” the Inquisitor said, arching one blonde eyebrow.

Samson shook his head. “I found them a cause, a supply of the lyrium that the Chantry bound them to. I fed them hope instead of despair. I made them believe their pain had purpose—just as the Chantry does. Right, Commander?”

He looked up at Cullen and at least had the satisfaction of seeing his face go still, of seeing that stick-up-his-arse expression that meant Samson was right but Cullen couldn’t admit it. “It’s the same lie the Chantry tells us,” he continued. “Come to think of it, it’s the same lie your Inquisition is feeding its people—a glorious leader taking us to a better future. You and Corypheus even have a matched pair of broken-down Templars as your generals,” he snorted, turning back to the Inquisitor. “You’re prettier than Corypheus, I’ll grant you that much.”

The Inquisitor just shook her head. “Some months ago a Tevinter mage cast a spell that sent me a year into the future—a year in which Corypheus had free reign over Thedas. The entire sky was green and the world was filled with demons. Is that the future you were fighting for?” she asked.

“I didn’t expect to see his future,” Samson muttered. “But I had men, former Templars, losing their minds and memories because the Chantry left them to rot. I followed Corypheus so that those men could die at their best.”

“Those were Templars at their best? Infused with red lyrium?” the Inquisitor said skeptically. “Half mindless, spitting rocks from their skin?”

“This is pointless, Inquisitor,” he snapped. “You will never understand.”

“I suppose not,” she admitted. “But Maddox believed in you. He died for you, believing your cause was righteous.”

Samson gritted his teeth and cast his eyes to the side. “Not your business, Inquisitor.”

“It _is_ my business,” she said calmly. “We are here to consider all of the blood on your hands—not just your enemies, but your friends as well. Look at me,” she said, that icy voice finally holding some heat. “Do you truly feel no responsibility for the deaths of those who followed you—for the deaths of people who sacrificed themselves for your sake?”

Samson’s self-control shattered _._ “As if no one has done the same for you, you self-righteous hypocrite!” he roared. “How many have died in the name of the so-called ‘Herald of Andraste?’”

“Too many!” she retorted fiercely, rising from the throne, angry now. “I know they have and I never forget it for a moment! I dream about them. I wonder what I could have done differently. I wonder if my life was really worth theirs.”

 “Well, aren’t you a paragon of virtue, then?” he said bitterly.

“I’m bloody _human_ ,” the Inquisitor snapped. “What I want to know is this: are you? Is there any part of you that regrets what you did to the people who trusted you?”

The fight drained out of Samson; he felt his shoulders slump. “It ended as well as anything I’ve done. Which … isn’t saying much.” He drew a painful breath. “Everything I cared about is destroyed. Do what you will. Your kind always does.”

The Inquisitor tilted her chin up; he could see her shoulders rise and fall as she breathed deeply. She sat back on her throne, poised and cool once more. “Very well. Samson, I sentence you to spend your remaining days serving the Inquisition. Cullen will be your handler.”

Samson looked over at Cullen. His former comrade's gaze rested on the Inquisitor, his expression halfway between admiration and worry. “I’ll tell your people what they want. But I doubt the Commander believes I have anything to offer your Inquisition,” he said—a bit acidly, since the Commander appeared to have forgotten that he even existed. 

Cullen turned back to him. “You’re not wrong,” he said wryly. “But you served something greater than yourself, once. Perhaps you may still do some good.”

Samson offered no resistance as he was led back to his cell.


	9. Interrogation

* * *

 

The Iron Bull caught up to Cullen as he left the audience chamber. “Hey, Commander. Need any backup when you talk to Samson? I’m available.”

Cullen could only stare at him. Why would anyone volunteer for such a thing? “To what end?”

Bull shrugged. “My Ben-Hassrath skills might as well be put to some use, right? Plus, I’m scary.” He grinned, which rather made his point.

Cullen considered this. “Thank you,” he said at last. “I would appreciate the assistance. My history with Samson might make this difficult.”

Which, he realized belatedly, was exactly why Bull had offered.

*

An hour later, Cullen had ordered a small desk brought down to the jail and was sitting behind it, staring directly into Samson’s cell. The Iron Bull stood behind him, looking impassive, intimidating.

“You brought a Qunari mercenary to protect you?” Samson snorted, leaning his arms through the cell bars. The former Templar looked a mess; lank hair, waxy skin, eyes glassy and bloodshot.

“What makes you think he’s here to protect _me_?” Cullen asked mildly. “Perhaps he’s here to make sure I don’t forget myself and run you through. From where I stand, an empty cell is of more use to the Inquisition than you are.”

“Ah, yes, the mighty Inquisition,” Samson said. “And its fearsome Inquisitor. Personally I think she’s a bit of a disappointment up close, but you seem to find her interesting, don’t you, Commander?”

“She is an admirable leader,” Cullen said mildly, scratching out a line on his paper to make sure the pen worked.

“Please. The way you look at her couldn’t be more obvious. Are you just panting after her like a mabari puppy? Or are you actually fucking her?”

Cullen said nothing. Samson smirked. “Probably the former. She seems too highborn to roll around with someone like you—although I bet she finds your little crush amusing. Probably laughs with the other nobles about it over tea in the afternoons.”

Slowly, Cullen set his pen down. “What are you trying to achieve, Samson?” he asked wearily. “Are you trying to make me lose my temper and tell you something about the Inquisitor that Corypheus will find useful? Do you really think this is an opportunity for counter-intelligence?”

“Nah. It’s sadder than that,” the Qunari said suddenly. “He feels like shit, so he wants you to feel like shit too. Less lonely that way.”

Samson flinched involuntarily.

“Ah,” Cullen said, picking up the pen again. “I see. Samson, please be assured that I am not enjoying this. If I’d been the one making the judgment I would have sent you back to Kirkwall with a complimentary headsman’s axe.”

Samson scowled at him. “You’re awfully high and mighty for a man who helped break the world apart. Or have you forgotten your part at Kirkwall?”

Cullen knew he should not rise to that kind of bait. But he remembered Samson’s trial, his sentencing, the pettiness of Meredith’s punishment, and felt he owed the man a reply. “I have not forgotten how badly I failed there,” he admitted. “I hope I never will. For what it’s worth I am sorry for what happened to the man you used to be. Sorry that I did not speak up for him, or Maddox, when Meredith learned about his letters.”

“Fat lot of good your ‘sorry’ does me now,” Samson snorted.

“You are not a victim, Samson,” Cullen snapped. “Your luck was bad, but your choices brought you here. Enough of this. You said you’d tell us what you know. So let’s start with Corypheus. How did he recruit you?”

*

When Cecily came to see him that afternoon, Cullen was throwing knives at a training dummy, trying and failing to work out his frustration.

“Imagining anyone in particular?” she asked as he threw his last knife.

Cullen sighed. “I’ve assigned Samson to Dagna’s charge for now; she plans to study him. There may yet be more intelligence we can glean from him, but I gained precious little today.”

“That was a good idea. Maybe Dagna can learn something from his resistance to the red lyrium,” Cecily said thoughtfully.

“The Iron Bull suggested it. But Samson deserves a far harsher jailor,” Cullen growled. “We should have sent him back to Kirkwall. Aveline Hendyr would have had his head on a pike before the sun set.” He was angry with Cecily, he realized suddenly—she had a soft heart, and it was one of the things he loved about her, but keeping Samson at the Inquisition was taking things too far. If it hadn’t been for Bull’s presence he might well have run the man through.

“You’re letting him get to you,” she said, sounding surprised.

“So what if I am?” Cullen snapped. “He turned good men into monsters and knew exactly what he was doing. I knew some of those men. If my life had gone differently I could have _been_ one of them. Thousands of deaths are on his head and for some reason we’re showing him mercy.”

Her eyes widened just a fraction. “He will live only long enough to die of red lyrium poisoning,” she said. “I do not count that a mercy.” For the first time in many months, she was directing her cool noblewoman’s voice at him. It did not improve his mood.

“The fact remains that he lives and will have meals and a bed at our expense, while the people he used suffer or grow cold in their graves,” Cullen spat. “I felt sorry for him, once. But no more.”

Cecily frowned. “I had not realized this would be so difficult for you to manage. I apologize.”

“It is no more than my duty, Inquisitor,” Cullen said, pulling his knives from the training dummy. “I will see it carried through. Even if I’d rather see the man facing a headsman’s axe.” He stepped back and threw one of the knives again; it landed in the dummy’s throat.

“I appreciate that, Commander,” she said, her voice polite and poised. “I’ll leave you be.”

She left, and Cullen did not stop her.

* 

Cecily left Cullen’s office feeling utterly off-balance. Had that been a fight? Had that been their first fight? What in Thedas had gone wrong? Cullen had been so calm every time they’d discussed his former comrade. He knew Samson, knew what it was like to be a Templar, knew what it was like to fight lyrium addiction. Why was he so angry that she’d kept the man for questioning?

The Iron Bull was waiting for her when she returned to the audience chamber. “Got a minute, boss?” he asked, jerking his head towards a quiet corner.

“Of course,” she said, forcing a smile as she followed him. “Cullen said you were in the interrogation with Samson today. Thank you.”

“Yeah, about that. I’ve got a recommendation as a former Ben-Hassrath. Assign someone else to handle Samson.”

“He did seem to be having difficulty with this,” she said, hearing the brittle edge in her voice.

“Yeah. He did his best, asked the right questions, got some good answers, but Samson knows him too well,” The Iron Bull told her. “He knows what to say to hurt the Commander. Worst possible thing for questioning.”

Cecily blinked, then sighed. “I made a mistake when I told Cullen to do this, didn’t I?”

“Not my place to say, boss,” The Iron Bull said, shrugging innocently. “Suggest, maybe. But I’d never _say_ it.”

“Duly noted,” Cecily said dryly. “And … thank you.”

Bull clapped her on the shoulder. “Any time, boss. Honestly, if you really want to get something out of him you should talk to Samson yourself. You, he doesn’t get at all. And he _hates_ you. Gives you power.”

Cecily grimaced a bit at the thought—then realized how much worse it must have been for Cullen, who had actually known Samson as a good man. _I’ll owe Cullen an apology when I see him next_ , she thought ruefully as The Iron Bull departed.

She wondered if she should go back and tell Cullen he would not have to see Samson again—but before she could decide whether to give him more time or not, she felt a gentle tug at her arm. Leliana had snuck up on her even more silently than usual.

“Inquisitor,” the spymaster said urgently. “Morrigan is gone.”

 

* * *

 

Some hours later, Cullen had calmed down enough to want to apologize. He still thought that Samson’s fate was rather too kind, but he could see why Cecily had wanted to keep him there—he had knowledge of Corypheus, and there was still a chance he might be able to do something useful for the Inquisition. He went to seek her out to tell her he would try again, that he would do better at not letting Samson get to him—but she was not in her chambers.

Eventually, Varric told him he’d seen her go into the storage room where Morrigan kept the Eluvian. But when he pushed the door open only Leliana was there.

The spymaster’s face blanched when she saw him. “Do not panic,” was the first thing she said.

Morrigan’s son had gone into the Eluvian—and Cecily and Morrigan had followed.

Cullen was absolutely, utterly certain that Corypheus was behind this, that he had somehow lured the boy away to draw his rival into a final battle. _And the last thing I said to her was about Samson._

He kept himself calm, barely, by running to find Solas, by trying to ask the questions about the Eluvian that he thought Cecily would ask. Solas’s answers made no sense to him. He was on the verge of giving up and asking Leliana to find Dorian when Kieran hopped out of the Eluvian, seeming none the worse for wear. Morrigan and Cecily followed. Morrigan’s face was ashen; Cecily’s, astonished.

“Are you all right, Kieran?” the sorceress asked her son. “You’re not hurt?”

“I feel lonely,” the boy said sadly.

Cullen took a deep breath. He wanted to yell at Cecy for going into that blasted thing, but they were back and seemed unharmed; there would be no point in it. “I am glad to see you all safe,” he said. “By your leave, Inquisitor.”

He turned to go, but Cecily’s voice stopped him. “Commander, will you have a moment later?”

He met her eyes and nodded. “I will be in my office. Or … perhaps in the chapel.” _I owe the Maker thanks today._

*

Cecily could not decide whether she was glad or guilty that Morrigan had been the one to drink from the Well. Perhaps a bit of both. The sorceress was clearly horrified to be bound to her mother, but she had not been so churlish as to hold Cecily responsible. She had wanted the Well; she would not blame the Inquisition for its price. At least Kieran was safe.

And apparently, the Inquisition would need to acquire its own dragon.

 _This shit is weird_. Sometimes Varric’s favorite phrase really was the only way to describe things at Skyhold. But at least they had a plan. It was a bizarre plan, but it was a plan.

With those matters settled—or at least at rest, for now—Cecily went to seek out Cullen. He was in the chapel, quietly reciting the Chant, murmuring about those who stand before the wicked and the corrupt. Cecily paused at the back, unsure if she should interrupt something so personal—but he had told her to find him here. “A good prayer,” she said softly when he fell silent.

Cullen turned his head. “A prayer for those we’ve lost.” His eyes met hers. “And for those I am afraid to lose.”

He rose, his eyes never leaving her face. “Today, I thought—I thought it was Corypheus who had lured you and Morrigan into the Eluvian. And even though it was not, there will be another day when he will come for us—when he will come for you.” His face was pale. “Andraste preserve me, I must to send you to him.”

“So I can defeat him,” Cecily said, reaching for certainty that she didn’t quite feel. “So we can end this war. When he comes, it will mean the chance to finish this. Perhaps then you’ll be able go an entire day without setting foot in your office,” she teased—tentatively, for she was not certain that Cullen wanted to be teased right now.

He smiled faintly. “Do you ever wonder what things will be like, after this is over?”

“Sometimes. I have a hard time imagining it, though,” she admitted. “Do you?”

He nodded. “I’ve come to no conclusions, except that I want to be with you.” His brow furrowed a bit. “I don’t think I’ve ever asked you about what you’ll want after the Inquisition. Will you still …?”

Cecily reached up and cupped his face with her hand. “You can’t possibly think I’ll lose interest in you just because one Darkspawn magister is dead, Cullen. You won’t be rid of me that easily.”

He laughed, then folded her into his arms, holding her tightly. “I’m sorry about earlier.”

“I’m sorry I didn’t ask you before I placed Samson in your charge,” she answered. “And I’m sorry I made you worry today.”

“Whatever happens, you _will_ come back,” he whispered.

“Is that an order, Commander?”

“No. But as one of your advisors, I strongly recommend it.”


	10. The Temple of Sacred Ashes

* * *

 

Cecily was not, by nature, a warrior.

She knew herself to be a talented mage, but her studies at Ostwick had been more academic than military. She and Lydia were famously the only two people in their Circle to have finished Dagna’s _Treatise on the Relation between Lyrium Vapor and the Supply of Magic in Mages_ (although Cecily was not ashamed to admit she had skimmed some parts). She had read a few books on the theory of using magic as a weapon, but had never had any intention of practicing that art herself.

That had changed the moment the Ostwick Circle’s Templars invoked the Rite of Annulment. Cecily killed her first man—then her second, and third—helping to evacuate the Circle’s children from their tower. Even now, even after hundreds of battles and far too many deaths on her hands, she did not relish combat the way Cassandra or The Iron Bull or even Dorian seemed to.

And the last time she had faced Corypheus, he had lifted her off her feet as if she weighed nothing, flung her into the trebuchet as if she were a rag doll, shrugged off her spells with barely a flinch. Only his arrogance and his fury at the fact that she’d stolen his anchor had saved her life. It had kept him talking, kept him from realizing her plan until it was too late.

Now, with Samson defeated, with Corypheus’s armies on the run and Morrigan confident that she could match his dragon, Cecily had no choice but to face a truth that she had tried very hard to ignore. It would be up to her to defeat Corypheus—and he would not underestimate her again. She was stronger than she’d been at Haven; she had mastered a way to use the anchor as a weapon, learned from Solas and Dorian and Vivienne, honed her skills against red Templars and Venatori and even dragons. But she could not say for certain that it would be enough.

That night, it was Cecily’s bad dreams that startled her and Cullen awake.

“What was it?” her Commander asked gently, pressing a hand to her back as she pushed her hair from her face.

Cecily thought about lying, thought about saying it was just a funny dream about being late for her Harrowing, but she would not have wanted that from Cullen. “Him,” she said simply. “I felt him—felt him near but could not see him. Could not stop him.”

Cullen’s arm slid around her shoulders and he kissed her temple. Cecily closed her eyes and leaned into him, waiting for her heartbeat to slow.

And then, far in the distance, Cecily felt a resonance with the mark. She opened her eyes but already knew what she would see when she lifted her left hand—the anchor, crackling and pulsing, splitting her palm painfully as its power surged.

Outside her windows, the sky tore and turned green.

 _Ah,_ Cecily thought, with that strange, intense calm that was really panic at its root. _Not a dream, then._

* 

“I’ll bring what forces I can down to the Temple,” Cullen said, running alongside Cecily as she gathered her gear. “But Cecily—we can’t be ready as quickly as you will be. The bulk of our army is still returning from the Arbor Wilds, and much of it remains deployed elsewhere. The task of stopping Corypheus …”

“Is mine,” Cecily finished. “It was always going to be mine, Cullen. It’s all right.” Her face was pale but determined, and Cullen’s heart felt as if it might shatter right then.

 _You_ will _come back._

Cecily seemed to sense the thought; she paused in the midst of her whirlwind, turned to face him, put her hand at his cheek. Cullen pulled her into his arms and gave her one fierce kiss. “For luck,” he said when he released her, trying to force a smile he didn’t feel.

_For luck. Not goodbye._

Cecily’s mouth quirked in a half smile; then her expression grew serious and focused again as she cinched her potions to her belt and seized her staff. Cullen was half a step behind her as she ran down the stairs—and therefore, he almost crashed into her when she opened the door and skidded to a halt.

Their entire inner circle was standing in the great hall, armed to the teeth and waiting expectantly for their Inquisitor.

The Iron Bull spoke first. “What, boss? You thought we weren’t coming too?”

 

* * *

 

Cecily was lucky. When the ground broke apart at the Temple, Solas and Cassandra and Blackwall were swept up along with her. The warriors kept Corypheus’s shades occupied while Cecily and Solas concentrated their magic on the Darkspawn magister—but it would all be for nothing if they could not kill his dragon.

Morrigan fought valiantly in dragon form, and for a moment Cecily was sure she would win. But suddenly the sorceress was restored to her human form, and falling. She struck the ground with a sickening thud and lay terrifyingly still.

“ _Morrigan_!” Cecily screamed.

“We must kill the dragon!” Cassandra yelled, tugging at her arm as the beast landed nearby.

With one last, agonized look back at her strange ally, Cecily ran to face Corypheus’s archdemon.

They defeated it, but at a cost. Blackwall’s leg was broken, and neither Solas nor Cecily could heal it quickly enough to return him to the battle. They returned to face Corypheus but Cassandra fell to one of his shades, a gory hole torn through her armor. Another shade seized Cecily’s right arm and wrenched her elbow; she felt it break, and her staff fell from her numb fingers as she lit the creature on fire. A moment later, a blast of Corypheus’s magic sent Solas flying against a wall.

Alone—as she had known she would be, somehow—Cecily turned to face Corypheus.

Her enemy only seemed half aware that she was there. Power was surging through the elven orb, crackling red and green, clearly unstable—clearly beyond his control.

“Not like this!” hissed the magister, finally looking at her, his eyes angry, desperate.

Cecily’s breath caught in wonder—and hope. _He’s afraid._

 _He should be,_ she told herself grimly, clenching her left hand tight _._

Power flowed through the anchor and Cecily _pulled_ , only half understanding what she was doing. The orb shot out of Corypheus’s hands and into hers, and she raised it to the sky, as if giving it an offering. The new rift responded, welcoming the orb’s power, embracing it and using its magic to heal itself.

When the sky was knit back together and the orb was spent, Cecily set the artifact gently on the ground. Corypheus fell to his knees, his twisted face shocked, empty. She felt strangely weightless as she looked at him. She had hated this creature for so many long months, hated him for what she’d seen at Redcliffe, for the lives lost at Haven, at Adamant, in the Arbor Wilds—but now she felt her hatred ebb away, leaving only relief.

“It is over,” she said simply.

Then she drew again on the anchor and sent its power surging through Corypheus, wound its magic through his limbs and chest and skull, and used it to shatter his now-mortal form.

*

Somehow, miraculously, they were all alive.

Solas had escaped without even a concussion. Cassandra’s wound was ugly, but could be healed. Blackwall had managed to maneuver out of the way of the falling rubble. Morrigan was by far the most seriously wounded, but she, too, was alive when the Temple of Sacred Ashes fell back to the ground.

Cecily was so elated that at first she could not understand why Solas looked so agonized—why he was staring at a few broken rocks. Then she remembered. The orb.

It had been destroyed when the Temple fell.

Real grief was etched over every line of the elf’s face. “I’m so sorry, Solas,” Cecily said, cradling her broken arm.

“It was not supposed to happen like this,” Solas whispered. “But it was not your fault.” He looked at her sorrowfully. “No matter what comes, I want you to know that you shall always have my respect.”

“Solas, what _exactly_ was the orb?” Cecily asked, quiet suspicion bubbling in her chest.

Solas’s answer—if he had intended to give one—was lost in the commotion as the rest of their people ran to find them.

“I knew a flying temple wasn’t _nearly_ weird enough to kill you,” Varric chortled. Then he got a better look at her and winced. “Um, Inquisitor? I don’t think your arm is supposed to bend that way.”

“It is not. But under the circumstances I don’t think I’ll complain,” Cecily said, laughing shakily. Then she winced too—apparently she had also broken a rib. “My injuries will keep until we return. Blackwall and Cassandra and Morrigan need help.”

Without another word the group was sweeping over the Temple ruins to collect their injured comrades. The Iron Bull lifted Cassandra in his massive arms; it was a testament to how badly she’d been hurt that she only objected a little. Sera and Cole pulled Blackwall to his feet and supported the warrior’s form between them. To Cecily’s shock, Morrigan rose and stepped forward under her own power; her hand was pressed to her side and she moved with a limp, but she was nowhere nearly as badly off as Cecily had expected. _Perhaps the dragon was not the only secret in the Well of Sorrows._

Morrigan caught her eyes and gave her something like a smile. “Victorious, I see! How novel.”

Cecily smiled back at her. “Thanks in no small part to you, Lady Morrigan. Are you all right?”

“I am not, but I shall be. It was … extraordinary,” she said, looking up to the sky. Cecily wondered what it was like to remember yourself as a dragon, what it was like to have such ancient magic suffused throughout your being.

Her eyes sought Solas—if anyone would be interested in the question, it would be him. The elf, however, was nowhere to be seen.

 

* * *

 

Cullen had a small force ready to march from Skyhold within the hour. They were halfway down the path to Haven when he saw the Temple of Sacred Ashes rise in the sky—and were nearly there when the rift closed and the Temple fell back to the earth.

He took a shuddering breath and continued leading the soldiers’ march towards Haven. What else could he do? He tried to convince himself that the rift’s closure was a good sign, that Cecily must have triumphed—but what had the victory cost?

He saw The Iron Bull first. The Qunari was moving quickly up the path, an injured Cassandra in his arms. Cullen called back for the healers, who brought a stretcher forward to whisk the Seeker back to Skyhold’s infirmary.

“Do not look at me like that. It is not _that_ bad,” he heard Cassandra scold the healer as she was taken away.

“The Inquisitor?” Cullen asked Bull quietly, his heart in his throat.

The Iron Bull grinned at him. “Take a look for yourself, Commander.”

Cullen turned his head back to the path. The Inquisitor’s little group was walking around the bend, clustered together, looking rattled and battered but also elated.

At their head walked Cecily, arm in arm with Dorian, a brilliant grin threatening to split her face.

Cullen managed to avoid running to her; instead, he moved at a very brisk walk, smiling as he heard the cheers rise from the soldiers behind him. Dorian was not just there for reasons of camaraderie, he quickly realized. Cecily’s right arm had been strapped against her chest with a belt and she was moving just a bit too slowly, just a bit too carefully. But she was _alive_.

Dorian winked at the Commander as he drew close. “I’ll let you take things from here,” he said, stepping aside so Cullen could take the Inquisitor’s arm.

Everything and everyone else fell away as Cecily’s weight settled against him.

“You’re hurt,” he said softly.

“But Corypheus is dead,” she said, looking up at him, exhaustion and exultation fighting for control of her face. “It’s _over,_ Cullen. And—and I came back,” she added softly. “I suppose now I can tell you that I wasn’t always sure I would.”

Even though she was safe now, Cullen’s chest still tightened. “I’m glad you decided to take my advice,” he said, brushing her hair from her face.

“I don’t know what happens after this,” she said, shaking her head in disbelief. “There will be a new Divine, and Orlais will want to know how soon we’ll be disbanding so Gaspard and Celene and Briala can be back at each others’ throats, and …”

“And I don’t care about anything other than you being alive,” he interrupted. “You have a moment to breathe. Take it.”

She leaned her head against his shoulder and laughed quietly. “I will if you do.”

“For you? I’ll try,” he whispered back.


	11. Epilogue

Samson could hear the cheering even in his cell, and he knew what it meant.

He should feel regret, he supposed. Regret that he had bound himself to a failed cause, again; perhaps regret that his master had perished. Instead, he merely felt empty. He wondered how long the celebration would go on, and whether anyone would remember he was there.

To his surprise, when the guard came with Samson’s next meal, the Inquisitor was trailing behind him, her arm bound in a sling.

“Here to gloat?” he asked, setting his food down on his cot and looking the Inquisitor in the eye. “Corypheus is dead, isn’t he?”

“Yes,” she confirmed. “Cullen thought you ought to know.” Her mouth twitched a bit. “And I thought he shouldn’t have to be the one to tell you.”

“I didn’t think anything else could cause this much obnoxious celebrating. I suppose now you’ll send me to Kirkwall,” Samson said. “With my master gone I’m of no use to your Inquisition.”

The Inquisitor shook her head. “Your sentence stands, Samson. You are remarkably resistant to red lyrium. Perhaps our arcanist will discover something that could help the other Red Templars recover their minds.” She looked at him closely, scrutinizing his reaction. “I would hope that goal might appeal to you.”

“What do you want from me, Herald?” Samson snarled. “Half of Thedas bows before your Inquisition, and the other half fears that it will have to. Will you really not be satisfied unless I bend my knee to you as well? You’ve won. I admit it. Now leave me be.”

“Cullen told me why Meredith cast you out of the Order. You carried love letters for Maddox,” she said. “Why? Did he offer you coin? Lyrium?”

“I was not always that pathetic,” Samson said bitterly. “I … felt sorry for him. It seemed such a small thing to ask, a few letters to his sweetheart in Kirkwall to let her know he’d survived his Harrowing. So I took them.”  

“You did a kind thing and it cost you terribly,” she said, her voice quiet. “I’m sorry.”

“I don’t need your pity, Inquisitor,” he growled.

“I suppose not,” she replied evenly. “Dagna will be by in the next couple of days. You might still do some good, Samson. I hope you believe that.”

Samson merely snorted and turned to his lunch. When he looked over, the Inquisitor was gone.

 

* * *

 

Cecily never quite got the moment to breathe that Cullen had suggested. Even with Corypheus dead, the Inquisition did not lack for work to do. Some rifts remained, some cells of Red Templars were still fighting their lost battle, and the Inquisition had acquired a reputation for knowing how to deal with dragons.

But things at the Inquisition were changing. Solas was gone; Leliana had little hope that they could trace him if he did not want to be found. Cecily had the fragments of the orb passed to their most skilled scholars. Something about this artifact had caused Solas to leave, and she suspected it had been for good reason. But not even Morrigan had a good idea of what the orb had been, other than the repository of the power that had opened the rifts. And Solas’s cryptic final message to Cole—something about a path he must walk in solitude—did little to put her mind at ease.

Blackwall was the next to leave. “I would fight at your side as long as you would have me, my lady. But I feel that perhaps it is time for me to go to the Wardens,” he told her gravely about a month after Corypheus’s death. Cecily bade him goodbye with sincere thanks. Two weeks later, Sera had a letter from him—he had survived the Joining and was settling in at Amaranthine. He’d signed the letter _Thom._

Cassandra hoped to rebuild the Seekers of Truth and was beginning to make contact with the few survivors of Lord Seeker Lucius’s madness. Vivienne wanted to return to Orlais—“it was very bold of you to force those three to work together, darling, but we’ll need a strong hand in Val Royeaux to keep things moving along.” Varric, too, began talking about returning to Kirkwall. Aveline had finally ousted Sebastian Vael—with some quiet assistance from the Inquisition—and he wanted to help put his city back in order. Cecily wondered if Kirkwall’s Champion might be able to return as well, but Varric just smiled and said nothing except, “Hawke’s hard to predict.”

And then the news arrived that Leliana had been chosen as the new Divine. The Inquisition had exercised its influence to bring this about, and Cecily knew Leliana would guide the Chantry down a more open and tolerant path, but she was still saddened at the thought of the spymaster no longer being in her tower, of losing the friendly, gossipy dinners with her and Josephine.

Other things stayed the same, however. Josephine continued to make Thedas’s nobles dance at her every smile and thank her for making them do it. Dorian told her he would not be returning to Tevinter for some time, “as it lacks the presence of my best and only friends.” The Iron Bull seemed content to have his Chargers stay in the Inquisition’s employ—although Cecily privately wondered how much of that was about the Inquisition, and how much was about Dorian. Cole and Sera stayed as well, Cole because they were still helping people, Sera because she had no place else to be (or at least, that was what she told Cecily).

And, of course, Cullen remained by her side, solid and strong, still dedicated to the Inquisition’s forces and determined to see them do good. Cecily was still not sure what the Inquisition could or should become after Corypheus’s death—what her anchor would mean when the last of the rifts were closed. But at least she was certain of one thing. She was certain of him.

* 

The night before Leliana was to depart for her coronation as Divine Victoria, Varric called them all together for another game of Wicked Grace.

To no one’s surprise, Leliana rivaled and arguably surpassed Josephine’s mastery of the game. Four or five hands in, Varric pointed out that the spymaster seemed to be playing cards she could not possibly have been dealt. Leliana merely smiled and told a very amusing story about how the Hero of Ferelden had bested a pirate in Wicked Grace by stealing a card straight from her hand.

This led to a round of story-telling by all at the table. Varric told a tale about how Hawke had once invited Carta assassins to play cards with her. The Iron Bull had a story about an Orlesian noblewoman that was so outrageous it almost brought a blush to _Leliana’s_ cheeks. To her slight mortification, Cecily found herself telling everyone exactly what had happened the night of her Harrowing, including the rabbit.

“That is scandalous! If anyone found out, the Inquisition would be ruined,” Josephine said. “Tell it again.”

“Absolutely not,” Cecily laughed. “Also, I fold.”

“Commander?” Leliana asked, her eyes dancing. “You are out of coin, but you could remain in the game if you wagered your shirt.”

“I fold,” Cullen said immediately. Dorian and Josephine both sighed in disappointment.

“Glad to see you learned your lesson, Curly,” Varric chortled. “So, Sister Nightingale. What’s going to be your first act as Divine?”

Leliana’s response was immediate. “I am going to reform the way the Chantry treats mages. Those with magic will no longer be held as prisoners within Circles of Magi. They will be able to serve the Maker in many ways. They will even be permitted to marry,” she said, with a sly glance over at Cullen and Cecily. She laughed when she saw their expressions. “I will miss watching the two of you blush in unison,” she teased.

“We’ll miss you too, Leliana,” Cecily said feelingly.

Several hours later, the game finally broke up, and Cecily and Cullen walked out of the tavern together.

“It will be strange to meet at the war map without Leliana there,” Cecily said softly as they crossed the courtyard.

“It will indeed,” Cullen agreed. “But I think she will do well as Divine.”

Cecily slid her left hand through the crook of his elbow. “I will miss you while I’m away at the coronation.”

“I will miss you as well.” Cullen paused; he pulled her to a halt and turned to face her. “I … I’ve actually been thinking. We spend most nights together when you’re in Skyhold. While you’re away, perhaps I should move my things into your chambers. Or perhaps not,” he said quickly, when she did not reply right away. “It was a silly thought, I’m perfectly content to stay where I am.”

Cecily finally found her voice. “Don’t you dare,” she said, sliding her right hand into his left. “It’s a splendid idea.”

Cullen smiled down at her. “Good. I was lying about being perfectly content to sleep apart from you,” he admitted.

Cecily laughed and rose on her toes to kiss him. “I am very glad to hear that,” she murmured as he pulled her close.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading! This was my first attempt at posting fanfic and it's been so much fun :-)


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